Saetan's Choice
by lethe2011
Summary: Story #1 in the Saetan Trilogy: An alternate Saetan/Sylvia romance
1. Chapter 1

**Ebon Askavi**

A handsome, aging Hayllian sighed as he rubbed a hand over his face, then rolled shoulders stiffened by hours of peering at old, faded papers.

Enough for today. Getting to his feet, he left the study.

As he passed through the hallways, the servants bowed, then pressed themselves closer to the walls.

It wasn't from fear. Just respect, a great deal of it, mixed with a healthy amount of awe.

Unlike some of his caste he didn't appear immediately threatening. True, he had the unmistakeable psychic scent of a Warlord Prince, but there were laugh lines etched deeply around the eyes and mouth. He moved with a natural grace that many a younger man might have envied.

Most would have mistaken him for a languid aristo who did nothing more energetic than attend high-class dinner parties. He might stroll down the city streets to shop, or gossip with others of his kind over a glass of vintage wine.

They would be wrong...dead wrong.

He was, despite the modest title he often used, the dominant ranking male at the Keep of Ebon Askavi, Witch's Lair, and one of the two most powerful Princes ever.

Saetan Daemon SaDiablo.

Born in the gutters of Hayll more than fifty thousand years ago, he had raised himself to the ranks of aristocracy by a combination of boldness, wealth, and the Power of his blood.

As a young Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, he fought his way up through court politics. Handsome, ruthless, charming, seductive, dangerous, he became Consort to Cassandra, Black-Jeweled Queen and Black Widow.

He loved her, and for a time they were happy together.

The Blood can be slow to mature. The darker the power, the more time it takes, especially for the long-lived races.

When Saetan finally made his Offering to the Darkness, he came away with Black Jewels darker and stronger than his Queen held.

Her love for him, never as strong as his for her, began to ebb under an increasing unease. Warlord Princes are natural killers, leashed only by Protocol and the Queen they served. But no Blood male had ever shown such dominance as this Prince.

How could she control him, as his caste are meant to be controlled, when that Black power was greater than her own?

He was the first Blood to walk freely in the Dark Realm, giving him the title of Prince of the Darkness. The demon-dead were so terrified of this Warlord Prince, they bowed down and named him the High Lord of Hell.

With his Black Jewel, he was lethal on the killing field, a cold, vicious predator and unforgiving enemy. Many people called him the Executioner.

The Darkness called to this Prince. He could sense the delicate, dark strings of power stirring in the Abyss, unlike most Blood.

No male had ever become a Black Widow. It was a dangerous and rare ability even among witches, but Saetan insisted his Queen teach him. He wanted this, he _knew_ it was meant to be.

Troubled, she wove a tangled web that promised the daughter of his soul would come some day far in the future. Saetan must be there for her. But there was only one way to accomplish this.

Her price for teaching Saetan the craft of the Black Widows was to insist he become a Guardian like herself, one of the Blood who accepts a half-life to extend their years. Becoming one of the living dead would ensure Saetan still walked in the Living Realms when the girl was born.

Reluctantly, he accepted the exchange. Cassandra broke with tradition and taught him the secrets of the Hourglass.

Saetan's confidence was not misplaced. His weaving of tangled webs was so skillful and his Black Jewels so feared, a century later the coven voted unanimously to give him the title of High Priest of the Hourglass.

The bastard son of a street whore had achieved rank and position far beyond anyone thought possible for him to achieve.

Not long afterwards Cassandra faked her death, hiding herself away. She wanted to avoid a man who was now too powerful to control, too dangerous to live with.

Believing his Queen dead, Saetan mysteriously disappeared from Terreille's courts for several centuries.

When he returned, he had a new family name as well as having amassed a fortune. No one knew where the money had came from, nor would he give any details.

Saetan merely raised his eyebrows, smiled coldly, and did as he pleased.

None of this made him any more socially acceptable to Hayll's Hundred Families. But they could no longer ignore him.

To demonstrate his dominance, he raised the greatest Hall ever built, one that stood in all three Realms. Something no Hall had done before or since.

All his life Saetan had yearned for the idea of a home, sought a woman to love who would love him in return. He wanted children to raise, in peace and safety. Things he never had while growing up.

But soon after building SaDiablo Hall, he made his first, terrible mistake. Fooled by a scheming, sly seductress, Saetan married Hekatah, a Red-Jeweled Priestress.

Some good had come out of it – his sons Mephis and Peyton.

So much bad had come out of that mistake. He never should have married the bitch, never given her a taste of Dark Power. If he hadn't been so lonely, envious of what others had that he never knew when growing up, perhaps the future taint of Dorothea could have been stopped before so much blood was shed on both sides.

After Zuulaman, he realized his marriage was over. He divorced Hekatah, keeping the boys. But her lust for power continued, until she provoked a war between Kaeleer and Terreille.

By the time it finally ended with the death of tens of thousands, the swollen ranks of the demon-dead included his son Mephis, his best friend Andulvar and Andulvar's grandson Prothvar.

Peyton's body was never found. He died defending Kaeleer, never reaching Hell for Saetan to say good-bye to his son.

Something inside of him shattered, and broke.

His dreams, his hopes – died.

Saetan was still powerful, still feared. But he was alone again, except for the demon-dead.

Hekatah was one of those, but Saetan could not bring himself to end her existence. She had given him his sons, and for that he owed her something.

She continued her ambitious, greedy schemes. She eventually found a protégé, a Red-Jeweled Priestess named Dorothea. Together, they schemed to bring all Terreille under their control by weakening the bond between Queens and their Warlords.

Instead of war, the two women used court politics and deceptive lies as their weapons. Slowly, insidiously, Protocol in Terreille was altered, even perverted, and strong Queens broken or destroyed.

Court by court, their influence gained hold.

Then one more responsibility, one more title, fell upon Saetan's shoulders.

Terrified by the carnage that devastated the ranks of the defenders of their Province Queens, both Dhemlan Terreille and Dhemlan Kaeleer petitioned Prince SaDiablo for protection against the continuing ambitions of Hayll. He was elected Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

Saetan refused to interfere with other Terreillean territories. He couldn't. The Old Ways forbid him to interfere with any Territory that wasn't his to defend.

He could keep Dorothea's and Hekatah's rot out of Kaeleer and the Dhemlan territories. That would be enough.

The years continued to crawl by. First decades, then centuries, then millennia. Crushing him under their weight, their pain. The faces changed, but the details were always the same. Complaints, endless minor conflicts, the gradual weakening of the Blood as they turned away from the Old Ways, all began to weary him.

Still, there was the long-ago promise he made to Cassandra. Waiting for the daughter who had never come.

But seventeen hundred years ago, he was maneuvered into fathering a child – Daemon, his fourth son. A few months later, not realizing he was still fertile, he fathered Lucivar.

Accidents or no, he rejoiced in their births. They were bright, active, happy boys. He loved both of them with all his heart, despite the fact they were as different as Summer and Winter. He spent hours with his boys, playing and teaching them the Ways of the Blood.

Then disaster struck.

The day he lost Daemon, denied paternity by a smiling Dorothea, Saetan destroyed the study in Tersa's cottage in blind anger. But it hadn't been enough, not enough at all.

She had planned perfectly, the damned bitch. The very next day he lost Lucivar as well, as Luthvian fell victim to Prythian's whispered lies.

He would never see them again. Dorothea would use her pet Black Widows to blank his sons' memories, erase him completely from their lives. They were too young to have sufficient barriers against the spells of the Hourglass.

His boys were gone, entangled in the vicious politics of Terreille's twisted Courts. Where torture was a spectacle for dinner entertainment, and every perversion was celebrated that could corrupt what the Blood had once stood for.

But he kept them from death.

Dorothea and Prythian received the only message he would ever send to them.

Because of Zuulaman, they understood he meant what he said.

And because of Zuulaman, Terreille could remain standing – for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

Arriving at SaDiablo Hall, he called in all the servants. "You are dismissed," he said. "Six months' wages will be paid to everyone. Take your belongings and go. _Now._"

No one questioned him, this Warlord Prince whose rage pounded out around him in waves. Frightened, silent, shivering, they left hastily. He waited until they were all gone, standing just inside the gate. Ice coated the gate's doors, slicked the walkways, froze the very air around him.

Impregnable walls of massive stone rose up before him. A monument to his power and position, where he hoped to find some peace, bring his wife and raise his family. Empty, useless dreams. He'd had no wife for fifty thousand years.

And now he had no sons.

All that rage, all that pain caged inside, aimed at something he could annihilate without hurting the innocent.

He had built it. It was his to destroy.

One savage unleashing of Black-Jeweled power. The part of SaDiablo Hall that existed in Terreille, exploded with a roar. Walls which had stood for almost fifty thousand years collapsed, shattered into fragments. A Black shield kept the explosion confined. For several minutes, the air inside the shield turned opaque as it rained stones and debris, smashing into the once-beautiful gardens.

As the stones began to fall, Saetan instinctively ducked, throwing up a last-second shielding over himself. A rock massive enough to smash him flat, instead struck only a glancing blow. But it crushed his leg as easily as if snapping a twig.

Pain and shock brought him back to his senses, pulled him back from the killing edge. Choking and coughing, he managed to vanish both shields. As the dust floated outwards, he painfully crawled away. He didn't get far before losing consciousness. It was Tersa who found him, saved his life. Broken on her Virgin Night, she was still a powerful Black Widow with great healing skills. She got him back to the ruins of her cottage, where he slowly healed.

He was fortunate the only lasting injury was a permanent limp. It took a while before he realized a part of him wanted to die that day. He had neglected to shield himself beforehand – something so basic, even a child does it instinctively. When he was able to leave, he walked away forever. He would never again live in Terreille.

From then on he stayed in the Dark Realm. Where slowly, Saetan declined over the next seventeen centuries, beginning to fade like an unused manuscript.

Until a fragile, powerful child reached out to awaken his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kaeleer – Dhemlan Province, Halaway**

Some memories are best left forgotten.

Others are impossible to forget.

One childhood scene was fixed in her mind – Instructor Normahn, gray-haired and dignified. Standing in front of the class, speaking with a Craft-enhanced weightiness that made everyone, even the younger boys who were always so restless, sit up in their chairs and pay attention.

_Think before you act._

_We are the Blood. We are Power. We rule the Realms._

_When a landen makes a mistake, feelings are hurt. Voices are raised._

_When we make a mistake, people die._

_Think before you act._

It had happened two years ago, but every time thememory crossed her mind, Sylvia, Queen of Halaway, winced anew.

May the Darkness have mercy, when was she going to _learn?_

It was her worst fault. She was, to put it kindly, impulsive. Her Consort's parting words had been less...polite.

_Hell's fire, woman, don't you understand the word dignity? Queens aren't supposed to act like hoydens. How do you expect to go any further in the Queens' ranks when you behave no older than Beron?_

Those last words wounded her terribly, hurt like a knife through the stomach. But they made her look at herself, and realize she didn't have any ambitions to rule a Province or Territory.

Halaway was everything she had ever wanted. These were her people, and she ruled them well. The land was healthy, the forests huge and leafy green. Numerous farms and homesteadings surrounded the village. It was the largest village on this side of the valley, being closest to SaDiablo Hall.

The Hall was so massive, it took the equivalent of a small army of workers to keep it running efficiently. There was a constant stream of visitors to the Hall, along with things needing to be fixed, improved, reworked, or invented.

She did consider herself capable of being a Province, or even a Territory Queen. Other Queens had even told her she should move upwards, apply for something greater. But she didn't want to leave her home, her family, her friends. Why should she? She was happy here, right where she was.

She nibbled her lower lip. All right, maybe she shouldn't still be sliding down the bannisters – especially at her age! - but it was _fun. _

And although Beron might be too grown-up to act like a child any longer, even Tad gave into a mischievous impulse or two upon occasion. Mikal was still an exuberant boy who loved to follow his mother on a slide down those same bannisters.

These days there was even more to keep her busy, with the two community schools, one of which was brand-new.

Lady Angelline had set it up after deciding that any landen who had even a weak Bloodline needed to learn the basics of Protocol and Craft. If that writer Jarvis Jenkell had been given the chance, perhaps he wouldn't have tried to make the Offering without guidance, and been driven to the edge of insanity.

Not that anyone was sure whether he _was_ insane, or just an idiot. But challenging the powerful SaDiablo family to a murderous contest could only be the act of either a fool or a madman.

They had won, of course. It was hard to imagine anyone, even with a real army, able to defeat Princes Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana. One puny half-blood author wasn't going to be enough, no matter how clever he thought he was.

The whole affair was the topic of gossip for weeks on end.

She wasn't likely to ever forget it, either. It was Jenkell's creation, a spooky house with deadly traps, that led to her embarrassing display of temper.

Jenkel hired three Black Widows to create illusions for him. One of them was Tersa, Prince Daemon Sadi's mother. Sylvia was fiercely protective of Tersa, who lived just outside her village in a small cottage built for her by the High Lord.

For centuries all the Dhemlan Queens had feared the evil taint of Dorothea SaDiablo's perverted Courts, where strong witches were broken on their Virgin Nights, rendered powerless to oppose her vicious scheme to rule all of Terreille's Territories.

An early victim of that strategy, Tersa had chosen to shatter her Chalice to regain her Black Widow powers. That this woman, even broken and without Jewels, could still weave the most tangled of webs, was a testament to what she could have been. But her hold on reality was tenuous, never lasting for more than a few minutes. Tersa was easily confused, so fragile.

After speaking to his mother but getting very little, Prince Sadi had come to talk to Mikal, who had thought up some of the tricks Tersa created for Jenkell.

Sadi was desperate for any information they could use. His cousin Surreal, along with the Warlord Prince who worked for him, were trapped inside that house.

Sylvia knew he was frustrated with how little Tersa had been able to tell him. She could see it in those cold golden eyes. She watched as his face tightened at the list of slightly gruesome illusions Tersa had woven. He was anxious to be gone, that dangerous temper visibly close to the killing edge.

And so she hadn't given it any thought at all. Her temper flaring, she _shouted_ at him, saying he mustn't dare make his mother feel bad.

Then she had punched Prince Sadi in the shoulder.

_Daemon Sadi! _

The current Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, both Terreille and Kaeleer. The man _she_ reported to as Queen, having to justify her actions whenever he felt the need to question them. Who could break her Sapphire Jewel without any effort, inflict the most painful death upon her with a touch of his poisoned snaketooth, then burn out her mind so there was nothing left.

A man even more powerful than his father, who had been the previous Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. The High Lord of Hell called him his mirror. But Sadi was a colder, more savage Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and Black Widow.

He was a Blood male so lethal, nobody but Jaenelle Angelline, she who was Witch, the living myth, dared to _touch _him without permission.

Just the thought of it made her wince. Again.

She. Had. Punched. Him.

Remembering the way his voice had dropped and his eyes started to glaze, gave Sylvia the shivers even now. She must have been out of her _mind! _Not even the High Lord raised his voice to Prince Sadi.

At least she hadn't been stupid enough to apologize. The only thing the SaDiablos, all of them, despised more than dishonoring the Old Ways of the Blood, were people toadying up to them.

Besides – her lips twitched irrepressibly – she was right, wasn't she? The Prince even admitted it before he left, albeit obliquely.

_My father told me I should never lie to a Lady._

Sadi was dangerous to the core. But like his Eyrien brother, he followed the Old Ways, a commitment which had never broken or faltered, despite seventeen centuries spent in the perverted courts of Dorothea and Prythian.

The High Lord was a good father. She wished her boys could have one half so good.

Her Consort had left when Mikal was three. He regularly sent funds for his sons, but he never visited, never invited them to come stay in his new home in Pruul. So many of the Blood had died in Terreille from the Witchstorm, there were scores of towns and cities needing new Queens and Warlord Princes to rebuild and maintain order, to renew the Old Ways.

Flynt had entered the service of a Queen ruling the largest Territory in eastern Terreille. A good-looking Purple Dusk-Jeweled Warlord, he rose to become her Consort, which gave him considerably higher status than what he'd received as Consort for a mere District Queen.

But the boys seemed to have adjusted to the absence of their father. Beron was twenty-four now, a studious young man. Maybe a little too quiet and well-behaved, but as his mother she wasn't able to draw him out about the girls he liked.

Tad was nineteen, energetic and restless. He was always in motion, never sitting still. Mikal was ten now, almost ready to go through his Birthright ceremony.

She had a good life, a full life. Her days were busy. There was satisfaction in fulfilling her responsibilities.

It was only...the nights that still bothered her.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Ebon Askavi**

As he opened the door to his room, he squinted in surprise. The Keep was a dark place, as much from the soaked-up atmosphere of ancient power as the fact it was carved out of the Askavi mountain itself. One of the maids must have been rushed, or just careless. There was a gap in the curtains. In the darkened room the shaft of golden light was blinding.

Still, it did nothing more than make Saetan wince a little. Thanks to his daughter's potions – Darkness have mercy, they had a kick like a team of runaway horses – he was recovering from the injuries he had received three years ago.

When Hekatah and Dorothea tortured him in their Hayllian camp. And his son had done worse. Hekatah and Dorothea could only torture his body. Even just the thought of those memories made Saetan shudder.

The eldest son who was a mirror was an especially lethal Warlord Prince, one who had been twisted and turned by Dorothea SaDiablo's perverted Courts, chained by the Ring of Obedience and forced to perform as a pleasure slave. In Terreille, he was known as the Sadist.

Daemon was the first male to be borna Black Widow. His Black-Jeweled powers were even stronger than Saetan's own. Only his love for Jaenelle Angeline, Saetan's adopted daughter who was Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh, kept those powers leashed. It was her request which sent Daemon to that camp, to buy the three days needed to unleash the Witchstorm that would cleanse the Blood forever of Dorothea's taint.

Daemon knew the price he paid would be high. But he did it for her. _Only_ for her.

For Witch, he would do anything; crawl, beg, lay waste to an entire Realm.

For Jaenelle, he was willing to break his own heart.

For three days in the Hayllian camp, the Sadist devised elegant, terrifyingly vicious tortures, not only upon his father but also his brother. Utilizing Jaenelle's ability to create realistic illusions, to their enemies the pain and death looked and sounded real. They were not, but the emotional torment inflicted upon them, was.

After three days, the Witchstorm rose, a howling of joy and anger that could not be stopped. When it finished, the tainted Blood, male and female, were gone. But the Blood that still lived by the Old Ways survived. Life could rebuild, and continue.

A breach of trust, however, even within family, can be easier to forgive than forget.

But Saetan's hurt and anger vanished as soon as he realized Daemon had no idea that Witch was sacrificing herself to prevent Kaeleer from going to war with Terreille. That he'd believed Jaenelle would be waiting for him back at the Keep, so they could be married.

Even a man so powerful as the Sadist has his vulnerable points. When Draca, Seneschal of the Keep, announced, "The Queen of Ebon Askavai is gone," and showed them the cracked, shattered sceptre of Witch, Daemon had collapsed, screaming. His son was able to return from the Twisted Kingdom, although he would forever carry those invisible scars. After Jaenelle recovered and the two of them were married, they struggled at first to adjust to a relationship as precious as it was frightening.

They seemed happy now, from what he could tell – and being who he was, Saetan could tell a great deal. He seldom had to worry about Lucivar, thank the Darkness. Marian was the perfect match for his Eyrien son, even if there were still some aristos who found it hard to believe a hearth witch with Purple Dusk Jewels was welcome in the powerful SaDiablo family.

Both sons were well settled. They had friends they could trust, beautiful homes, lives that were full and satisfying.

And that made _him_ very happy. Neither Mephis nor Peyton – he stifled the remembered ache – were able to find the contentment Daemon and Lucivar were so fortunate to enjoy.

For him, the High Lord of Hell, it was too late.

He had a weakness for women, one Daemon didn't share. Sometimes that thought frightened Saetan, but other times he found it comforting. His son would not make the same mistakes he had.

Perhaps his children's happiness balanced some of his errors.

He hoped it was so.


	5. Chapter 5

As the Living Realms began to rebuild, Saetan divided up the family properties between Lucivar and Daemon. It was the right thing to do for his two sons – finally grown, finally free, finally restored to him. SaDiablo Hall was officially given to Daemon and Jaenelle. The staff agreed to remain: Beale as the butler, Mrs. Beale ruling supreme in the kitchen, Helene as the housekeeper.

Saetan also resigned his position of Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. It was no longer necessary for them to have a protector these days, with Dorothea's taint removed from the Blood. He also turned all the family business interests over to the eldest, whose immense personal fortune attested to his formidable business acumen.

He went to live at the Keep. On a whim, he chose the title of assistant librarian to Geoffrey. The Keep librarian's workload had increased tremendously as the Living Realms, especially Terreille, clamored for information on Protocols that had long been altered or forbidden outright.

Even as his sons built stronger ties to the land and the lives around them, Saetan began to wonder if there was some failing, some weakness in him. Despite the steady improvement in his health, he was starting to _feel _old. He found himself more sympathetic to Cassandra's weariness with the outside world.

Immortality slowly wore away one's humanity, dulled the emotions as the body gradually slid further into the Dark Realm.

Not that he had given up all ties to his children, especially his sons. Lucivar and Daemon made it clear more than once that they would not allow him to withdraw completely. Perhaps because his sons spent so many centuries apart from him. Growing up too fast, too hard, unable to protect one another from endless tortures and unceasing pain.

They came to him now, sometimes as the dangerous Warlord Princes they were, but sometimes simply as the boys they never had the chance to be, for advice and help and guidance. Ebon-gray and Black Jewels. There was no one else strong enough to understand them. Two such different men, yet bound so tightly to one another.

And to him.

Saetan thanked the Darkness every day for what he had been given.

When he stopped to think about it, for a man with no living family for forty-eight thousand years, over the last few decades he had somehow acquired rather a large number of them. His two grandchildren lived in Ebon Rih. Daemon and Jaenelle often saw their friends visiting, who had formed Witch's First Circle and coven when all of them were hardly more than children themselves.

These bright, energetic, talented Warlords and Queens had informally adopted him that first memorable summer, calling him uncle. He loved every one of them, even as they had grown up, married, and were starting to have their own children.

A recent addition to the family was Surreal, former assassin, former whore, now Daemon's second-in-command. She had claimed the SaDiablo name as a gesture of defiance, only to discover it gained her not just one family, but two. He had grown to love this fierce, lovely, clever woman, who showed such deep loyalty to the family she'd unexpectedly acquired.

She too called him Uncle Saetan, although from her it was as much from a sense of mischief as affection.

And there was Jared Blaed, Gray, the Warlord Prince of Shalador Nehele. Once a young man hobbled by the mental and physical scars of torture, he had matured into a formidable warrior and leader. As Dena Nehele broke and Shalador Nehele rose under Queen Cassidy, the boy Gray had been needed a mentor to become First Escort and Consort. Jaenelle's remark that Gray was Second Circle strongly influenced his decision to allow Jared Blaed to become another of "his boys."

Well, it wasn't as though there was much to do at the Keep as he thought.

A few months ago, a young Rose-Jeweled Warlord named Danyul had approached the Keep through an introduction from one of Jaenelle's closest friends, Queen Karla of Glacia. "He loves books, Uncle Saetan, and would like nothing better than to be here full-time," she waved a hand to encompass the massive library where they sat. "If you think he could fit in, I can vouch for his abilities. His current project is at an end, and he would welcome a new challenge."

Then she smiled, the wicked grin that even lingering physical weakness could not destroy. "I thought the Keep might utilize his talents better than we can."

Saetan smiled back. Karla was a Grey-Jeweled Queen, Healer and Black Widow. Her court was one of the strongest in Kaeleer, with her cousin Morton agreeing to return as First Escort even though he was now demon-dead.

"Very well," he said mildly. "Send him in, and Geoffrey will make the final decision."

She nodded, getting to her feet with the help of the cane. She seemed stronger, not leaning on it so heavily. But he knew she had good days and bad days, so that might not mean much. He'd lost a lot of people over the last fifty thousand years. Sometimes a good memory was more a curse than a blessing.

"May the Darkness embrace you, my dear," he said as he escorted her to the door.

"Kiss kiss," she gave him her wicked smile again as she left.

Danyul was the ideal combination of eager young energy and polite good manners. Saetan liked him on first sight, and so did everyone else. He didn't even seem intimidated by Draca, and _that_ was a rare thing indeed. Geoffrey agreed to hire him and he began working immediately. Such enthusiasm and energy were enough to make an old man tired just watching him scramble up and down ladders all day, carrying piles of books so high one could hardly see over them.

There were still roomfuls of old papers and manuscripts to sort through. Those needed careful perusal by someone experienced enough to tell what should be kept and what could be safely burned to ash. But Saetan had been doing that every day for several weeks now. He deserved a break.

The High Lord snorted at himself. All he need do was offer to take care of Daemonar for a few days, and he'd be _happy_ to get back to piles of old faded papers.

He loved his grandson, but even Lucivar hadn't been so...exhausting.

Then he looked up as a wave of Dark power swept through the Keep. A few minutes later, the Keep's new butler Chathman appeared in the doorway to announce his children. "Hello, Papa." His daughter flew into his arms for a hug and a kiss.

"Father," echoed Daemon, shrugging off his cape and vanishing it. Jaenelle sat down, and he perched on the chair arm.

The thought occurred to Saetan he would like to have them painted this way. Daemon was heartbreakingly beautiful, tall and slim and graceful as the wind. Jaenelle had finally gained some weight back, and maturity only added to that exotic beauty.

Then he heaved a sigh as she called in a tall glass bottle and set it on the table beside him. His daughter, the most skilled Black Widow in all three Realms, had finally found a way to maintain the potency of certain formulas. She no longer needed to come daily to bring him a freshly-brewed dose. Instead, she could bring enough for a week at a time.

Which meant he could have discreetly tossed most of it out the window, if she hadn't linked bottle and glass together with a Spell. If the liquid didn't flow from the bottle into the glass, and from the glass to his lips, Jaenelle would know he'd thrown it away.

It wasn't that it tasted bad, because it didn't. Her potions were remarkable for tasting wonderful, like sky and wind and water, starshine and moonlight and the sweet scent of good memories. It was just they were a little...breathtaking. Like the aforementioned kick from two horses, not just one. Daemon, damn his black heart and Jewels, was grinning, enjoying the sight of his father, the second most powerful male in the history of the Blood, cringing at the thought of taking his medicine.

With two pairs of eyes watching him, there was no way to avoid drinking the damned stuff. Saetan dutifully swallowed the full cup. He even managed to keep a straight face and not wince. He should be used to it by now. Although he wasn't, and didn't think he ever would be.

Forcing himself to draw in a full breath – it always took a few moments – he offered a weak smile to the daughter of his soul. "Thank you, witch-child," he muttered.

A silvery peal of velvet laughter rang out. "Oh, you don't mean that, Papa. I know it!" She sobered, but the blue eyes danced. "But it does you good. You look much better these days."

Daemon's golden eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked down at her with a smile. His hand gently smoothed her golden hair, which was slowly growing out and now almost to her shoulders.

It warmed his old heart to see the two of them so much in love, so happy together at last. There were too many times when that hadn't seemed possible, for any of them to take it for granted.

"You do look better," Daemon agreed, smiling.

Jaenelle added, "It won't take long now. Perhaps a few more months before you're as strong as you were before..." she stopped awkwardly.

Saetan spoke the words no one wanted to say until now. "Before Hayll," he finished the sentence for her.

They weren't going to do it, so if it was going to happen, then he had to say what must be said. None of them could move forward when the past was still crowding at their heels.

"Everything is all right. _I'm_ all right. And I think both of you needed to hear me say that aloud," he added, knowing Daemon too had tensed. The words weren't enough, and he hadn't expected them to be, but he saw his son take a deep breath and relax.

He chose his next words carefully. "Witch told Daemon the triangle had to remain together in order to survive. Even with all five of us to play with, the Sadist had his hands full giving her the entire seventy-two hours she needed."

Jaenelle and Daemon stared at him without speaking.

Then Witch replied, in her voice of midnight and lightning, "Yes, High Lord. The triangle had to stay together."

Softly Daemon added, "May it never be necessary to go through such desperate measures again."

Saetan nodded, satisfied. "Darkness grant us mercy."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Kaeleer, SaDiablo Hall**

Daemon Sadi looked up as his wife entered the study. Rising to his feet, he purred, "Darling, I thought you were busy—"

And stopped in his tracks as sapphire-cold eyes locked on his. Witch said, "I wove a tangled web today about the High Lord. There's danger to him."

Fear, so freezing cold, clutched icy claws inside his chest.

He loved his brother, worshiped his wife who was also Witch – but as Draca once said, Saetan was his heart.

It had taken him years, but he finally broke through the last remnants of the spell Dorothea and her bitch Black Widows had woven around him. The spell that made him forget his childhood, all those precious times when his father was with them. He remembered now. He remembered _everything._ Most painful of all, he remembered the panicked terror he felt when Saetan was forced to walk away after that bitch denied him paternity. Running after him, sobbing, desperately trying to reach him; almost, almost making it through the Circle—

The crushing pain, the first of many, so many he couldn't count them all, as the combined powers of Dorothea and her guards pulled him down, held him helpless while he screamed and fought and wept. Until one of the men lost his temper after being kicked in the balls, hitting him so hard Daemon lost consciousness for a full day.

Manny had already told him this story. But now it was real, now it _hurt._

If Dorothea and Hekatah weren't already dead, he would kill both of them, slowly. And then he would want them revived. Not demon-dead, but truly alive, so he could start the torture all over again. Several hundred times of that ought be enough to ease his need for revenge.

Or not.

He wanted so badly to make them suffer. Suffer for what they had done to him and Lucivar. And to Saetan. Those bitches had ripped his heart out. Because there was nothing that man loved more than his children. Every one of them, even that unnamed little boy Jaenelle told him about.

The babe cut into pieces by his heartless whore of a mother.

His half-brother. A son who never had the chance to see his father's face, never feel the touch of a warm loving hand smoothing his hair, never hear a story read to him after being tucked snugly into bed. Who would never know the man with the deep voice that reassured a small child that everything was all right. That the world was big and a little scary, but he would always be safe and loved as long as Papa was there.

Despite the tortures, the humiliations, the perversions of Dorothea's courts, no one could ever break the Code of Honor that Saetan Daemon SaDiablo managed to instill in his sons during those few years they had with him. He had taught them the meaning of honor and courage, teaching them what it meant to be Blood and Warlord Princes. What it meant to serve a Queen. How to guard and protect the people they were responsible for.

They had not remembered _him. _But they would not, could not, forget what he had shown them they should be.

Now he could recall the eagerness with which he and Lucivar looked forward to his father's visits. Those imaginary ocean voyages with whirlpools and water dragons to be braved. And the feel of his father holding his hand, walking along as Lucivar fluttered around them, laughing.

All of them, laughing.

Happy times. Good times.

He had lost most of those memories for centuries. Gaining all of them back was the most precious treasure given to him since Jaenelle had put the wedding ring on his finger.

So it was fear that sharpened his voice, made his temper rise to the killing edge. "Who's threatening my father?" he crooned softly, eyes starting to glaze. "Whoever it is, I'll bury them."

Witch looked at him, and those sapphire eyes made his blood run cold. "There is nothing we can do," she said in that sepulchral voice that echoed in his ears. "The decision must be his."

Daemon fought back panic, throttled down his temper. "_What_ decision?"

"Whether to accept life, or let it go."

He blinked in shock. Was she saying that _Saetan _would—?

"We can't help him, Prince," Witch said. "Only the High Lord can choose the path he is willing to walk down."

"But _why?"_ he asked desperately. "You said he was getting stronger! He looks so much better, he hardly even limps any more."

For a long moment Witch was silent. Then she said, "He _is_ healing, although it's been slower than I expected. If he continues with the strengthening potions, in a little while it will be as if Hayll had never happened. But it isn't his body that's the problem, Prince. It's all a part of who he is now, instead of what he has been in the past. It's in his mind."

"There is nothing wrong with his mind," Daemon snapped back.

She nodded. "Not in that way. He's as sharp as ever. But he's lived a long time. Longer than any Guardian ever has, except for Cassandra and Geoffrey. Even a man as powerful as Saetan gets tired. The centuries blur...and eventually feel endless."

"But he has _us,"_ Daemon protested. "You and me. Lucivar and Marian. Daemonar and Ruthvian. And Surreal – everyone who calls him Uncle Saetan! Are you saying all of us aren't enough to hold him here?"

Silence again. Then Witch said, "Everything has to have a balance. None of us – you, me, Lucivar – would be here now without him. For fifty thousand years he has upheld the ways of the Blood as no one else could. His friends, his first family, are gone beyond recalling. He has shed the blood of more thousands than any of us, Prince. When can he lay down the burdens of so much power, so much duty? When does he get to rest?"

Saetan's son closed his eyes, fighting for control. He felt sick to his stomach. If Witch said they couldn't help, then they couldn't.

But Mother Night, this was his _father._

When they finally met as adults, at first he was wary, then cautiously hopeful. Then...then it was as if something slowly cracked inside, not quite breaking open all the way, but enough to know he loved this man. And that he was loved in return, for everything he was, no matter how dark it might be.

For the first time in his life there was another male he could trust completely. Someone to whom he could say anything, anything at all. Someone who would understand, as no one else could or did, because he was his father's mirror.

Saetan, who loved him so much he threatened to wipe out half of Terreille, guilty and innocent alike, the moment he, Daemon, no longer walked among the living.

Her words silenced him, but his mind buzzed frantically, unable to stop. Saetan was a Guardian. He would live forever – unless he chose not to.

_But he lived to serve Witch._

Why would he leave the beloved daughter of his soul?

_Because you're here,_ his mind whispered the sly answer. _You'll take care of Witch _and_ Jaenelle. He knows you would give your life for her, serve her body and soul, always. _

He isn't needed any longer.

_He knows..._

Daemon clenched his fists. A sudden burst of power, and the small table beside them collapsed, shredded into kindling. Automatically he shielded the explosion, never needing to think, instinctively protecting his Queen.

Witch did not flinch, never even blinked. Then she extended her hand. But it was Jaenelle who said, "We have to trust him."

Unable to speak, unable to move, he stared at her hand. Remembering a different hand – strong and slender, with long, black-tinted nails, reaching out to him.

If he hadn't decided on impulse to get a breath of fresh air at the service fair that day, he would have signed on with one of Dorothea's pet Queens in Little Terreille. A fiendishly clever plan by Dorothea, or more probably, Hekatah. His Black-Jeweled powers would have been tied to the wrong side, trapped by Protocol.

Only the merest chance set him on a collision course with his brother, whom he hadn't seen in eight years and thought still wanted to kill him. Instead, Lucivar dragged him off to Kaeleer, the place they now called home. Where Jaenelle and Saetan were waiting for him. These past few years were hardly the blink of an eye for them to be reunited, a real family once again. It never occurred to him there might come a day when Saetan Daemon SaDiablo was no longer with them.

It was too soon..._much too soon._

He gripped her slim fingers, but the sick feeling inside him didn't go away. Couldn't go away completely.

"We can't tell Lucivar," was all he could manage.

She nodded. "No. We can't tell anyone. He'll make the decision soon, Daemon. Whatever he decides, we'll know soon."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Ebon Askavi**

Twice a month he descended to the depths of the Keep, where very few were allowed to walk. Lorn, legendary Prince of the Dragons, liked his privacy, and quiet.

But he _was _the last of his kind, and the High Lord had gained an impression of loneliness, too. It was a feeling he understood.

So Saetan asked permission, and was given it, to share some time with Lorn. Just to talk about what Jaenelle or Witch had done that week. Occasionally he would relate events in the lives of the former First Circle Queens and their Consorts, sent through chatty letters addressed to 'Uncle Saetan'. Sometimes he brought a book to read aloud to Lorn, so afterwards they could talk for a while, making a small bridge between two races so far apart and different.

It was a change for Saetan to be with a being who dwarfed him in every way. He was usually the one others thought of as older, wiser, more powerful and experienced.

_You are my son,_ Lorn had said. _You have upheld the ways of the Blood._

Saetan treasured those words. He had always done his best, even as the weight of his mistakes sometimes burdened his heart with a load that felt impossible to carry much longer.

The chamber lightened as torches flared to life, enough so he could make his way along the wall to a comfortable chair placed beside a small table.

*Ssaetan.* Lorn's golden eyes opened. They were as large as dinner plates.

"Lorn," he replied courteously, giving a bow of respect for the one who was the source of the Blood's power. Lorn's scales were the Jewels they were gifted with, even the ever-changing Twilight's Dawn, the jewel Jaenelle now wore in place of the Ebon-black.

*You are troubled.*

Saetan blinked in surprise. "No, things are going well."

*In your heart.*

He did not deny it. Lorn had immense powers – he _was_ the power that embrued the Keep. Even Witch respected Lorn.

"Perhaps a little," he admitted. "At times I feel torn between the Realms. I'm a Guardian, one of the living dead. But I have ties to the Living Realms, ties I'm not strong enough to cut, at least not completely. It's a weakness I wish to overcome, but it's difficult."

The huge golden eyes stared at him. He was accustomed to that gaze, but he still felt the weight of it.

At last Lorn said, *When a goal iss accomplisshed, another comess.*

He wasn't certain what that had to do with his problem, but he accepted it was all Lorn had to say. Dragons were hard to push, even the small ones that lived in the Fyreborn Islands and were distant descendants of their mighty ancestors who had once ruled all.

Saetan held up a book. "I thought you might find this interesting," he said, and sat down. He formed a ball of bright candle-light with a thought, opened the pages to the passage he marked with a strip of paper, and began to read.

When he was back in his bedroom, Saetan thought about Lorn's words. His goal...what _was_ his goal now?

As soon as Jaenelle came into his life, his goal had been to keep his fragile Lady safe. He instructed her at Craft, encouraged her hesitant attempts to reach out to her childhood friends. He protected her as she grew to womanhood. It was one of his greatest joys, as well as with deep-seated relief, when she became Daemon's wife.

Daemon, whose predatory nature had honed him into a lethal weapon that would always defend his Queen. Who had waited seventeen hundred years to be Witch's Consort and Jaenelle's husband.

And oh, _that _Dance between the two of them was a sight to behold! As Lucivar liked to say, Witch danced with Sadist, while Daemon made love to Jaenelle.

The last three decades had brought pain and blood to all in Kaeleer and Terreille. But also joy, warmth, laughter, and love – reminders of why it had been worth the long wait for Witch to appear in the flesh.

_How could he turn his back on his own children?_

Although they were grown, he was an integral part of their lives. Still...they didn't really need him any longer. Surely it would not be long before he could take those last steps backwards.

_Wouldn't it?_

Saetan faced the truth he wanted to hide from. Could he honestly step away and no longer care about his children and grandchildren?

Never read another story to Ruthvian and Daemonar? Never watch them grow up, fall in love, get married and have children of their own? Never play with the children of his blood when Daemon and Jaenelle started their family?

He couldn't do it. He couldn't step back, never to walk in the Living Realms again. It was traditional for a Guardian. The ties had to be cut, Cassandra told him. She had done it, watched her people fade and die off, new races appear and flourish.

But hadn't she become weary of the half-life, towards the end? What was that she had said to him in his dream?

_I wish I had been a better friend to you._

He wished for it, too. Someone to share a laugh with, drink a glass of yarbarah in front of the fire, when the endless nights became more Darkness than even he could bear. And if _she_ had regrets about severing their relationship...

Was his longing to keep the ties of love that bound him to the living, such a bad thing?

Long ago, when he was struggling to be accepted by people who looked down on him for having no father, no connections, there was a saying in old Terreille.

_Dried blood only turns to dust_.

Not even the Ebon-black powers of Witch, she who was the living myth, dreams made flesh, can change the Past. But every Black Widow knows that the tangled webs show what is possible. The Future is never set; a man's choices determine his path.

_Another goal comess._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Ebon Askavi**

Winsol was a festive time of year. The celebration of what is, a time to exchange presents, indulge in good food and drink, and remember those who are loved ones. It was the time to reflect, to dance, to anticipate the joy of new life that arrives when Springsol comes around.

But when one's family includes a ten-year-old Eyrien Warlord Prince, things can get a little hectic. Well actually, a lot hectic.

Thank the Darkness Lucivar's and Marian's second child was a girl. Ruthvian was so much like her mother, a sweet soul who loved everybody. Two Daemonars would be too much to handle...even for the SaDiablos. When Daemon and Jaenelle finally got around to having children, life was going to get a whole lot livelier at the Hall.

It tired Saetan out just to think about it.

He blew out a breath as he walked in the front door of the Keep. "High Lord," Chathman welcomed him back. And then announced unexpectedly, "You have a visitor. In your study," he added.

_Who in Hell's name would be visiting at this hour?_ Saetan stared at the butler. "Who is it?" he snapped.

"The Queen of Halaway, High Lord."

"Sylvia?" His first shocked thought was something terrible must have happened. _To Mikal? Please, not the boy._

Too anxious to remember to vanish his cape, Saetan didn't run, but he walked very swiftly towards his study. He used Craft to pass through the door...then stopped in his tracks.

She was asleep on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Curled up at one end, her head pillowed on one arm. Daemon told him she had cut her hair. It was short and fluffy around her face. Sassy, his son had called it. But now it only looked soft and tumbled.

He swallowed. She looked – well, most people looked vulnerable when they slept, didn't they? He probably did himself.

Given a choice, he'd let her sleep. He wanted just to watch, the firelight flickering over her face. Like a caress, feather-light and gentle, touching the warm silky skin—Saetan forced his mind to drop that line of thought.

As delightful as it was to see her asleep in _his_ study, on _his_ sofa, that wasn't going to tell him what he needed to know. But he didn't want to startle her, didn't want to give her a fright and jolt her awake. So he walked silently over to the sofa, knelt down so he was close to eye level with her. Then murmured softly, "Sylvia? My dear, it's time to wake up."

Her eyelids flickered as she blinked up at him. Then she struggled to sit up. Automatically he reached out to help her.

She froze at his touch, and he cursed himself for being a clumsy fool. _Too late now_, he told himself, gently helping her up to a seated position. He floated a footstool over, then sat down on it. Not too close, but close enough. "My dear, what's wrong? Why are you here? What's happened?"

Sylvia straightened her shoulders. There was no smile on her face. "Forgive me, High Lord. I shouldn't be intruding on your Winsol. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to stop by. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep on your sofa. I guess I was – more tired than I thought." She looked down at her hands, then raised her chin again.

Reassured that her presence didn't mean an emergency, Saetan let his stomach settle down. Her formality nettled him, but he could hardly blame her for it. "It's not a problem, Lady. How are you? I hope Mikal is well?"

"Yes, he's well. And I'm fine, thank you."

"I'm sure he's enjoying the Winsol festivities, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is." She drew in a breath. "I came because...because he made you a present. And he asked me to give it to you personally. He wanted to be sure you'd open it."

Rocked, Saetan pulled back. He didn't know whether to be amused or offended. Had the boy or his mother thought he would simply throw it away without looking at it?

Sylvia didn't look at him as she called in a good-sized box, inexpertly wrapped. A ribbon was tied around it with a slightly lopsided bow. He had to chuckle, couldn't help it. "Ah, I see. And he even wrapped it himself."

A tremulous smile curved her lips. "Yes, he did. You can tell those things, can't you? He was very proud of himself."

"He should be," Saetan said gently. "Just as you're proud of him for doing it."

She nodded. Her throat worked, but she said nothing.

Saetan unwrapped the present carefully. He lifted off the lid and looked inside. Stunned, he stared. "Oh, my," was all he could say.

It was a wooden boat with canvas sails. There were small oars, too; not very even in size or shape. But for the work of a ten year old with little or no training, it was remarkable. Perfect for sailing the Phantom Seas.

He had to swallow again, and it was harder this time. "It's—beautiful," he whispered, lifting it out and turning it around in his hands. How long had it been since he'd held a toy boat? He couldn't remember any more.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Sylvia coughed and said, "I—I did help him make the sails. We had some trouble with the rigging, but he figured out how to make it work. He's good at those kinds of things."

"Yes. I remember that," Saetan replied, still studying the toy.

Silence again.

"Well. It's late, and I mustn't stay longer," she announced, getting to her feet. "I'll tell him you liked it. Happy Winsol, High Lord."

Saetan rose to his feet as well. "Please tell Mikal I like it very much. Very much indeed. In fact, I believe this is the best present anyone's ever given me."

Surprised, her eyes flew to his face. They stared at one another for a frozen space of time. Then the Queen of Halaway nodded and dropped her eyes. "I'll tell him that."

He held the door open for her. She walked through, then turned around. "It was...good to see you again, High Lord. You're looking well. My regards to your family."

He inclined his head. "It's good to see you as well, Lady. Happy Winsol to you and yours. May the Darkness be ever kind."

"Thank you," she replied in a quiet voice, and left.

Saetan went back to his desk. He picked up the boat again. His finger stroked it thoughtfully, but his gaze was abstracted, as if he was seeing something entirely different.

Something far away, and long in the past.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Kaeleer – Dhemlan Province, Halaway**

The sky was clear again and the sun was shining brightly. "Come _on,_ Mama!" her son yelled from the garden. "All the snow will melt!"

She laughed. "All right, I'm coming!" she called out the window. Latching it shut, she left her room to run down the stairs, stuffing her hair under a knitted cap. She called in her gloves and winter cape, wrestling with the armholes as usual.

When was she going to remember to call in the stupid cape first, _then_ her gloves?

Running out the door, laughing—

And smack into a wall.

"_Ooommph!"_ she gasped, bouncing backwards. She would have fallen on her backside if two strong hands hadn't caught her, yanked her upright.

"Are you all right? You're not hurt?" a deep voice asked.

Stunned, she looked up into an achingly familiar face. Not a wall, but a muscular chest.

"What—what are _you_ doing here?" she said faintly.

Her rudeness amused him; his lips twitched. "Preventing the Queen from falling upon her dignity, apparently," he replied in a dry voice.

Belatedly realizing what she had said, Sylvia's face flushed crimson, but she snapped her mouth shut on a sarcastic answer. No need to add fuel to the fire. She pulled her arms out of his grip – it wasn't easy – and tossed her head defiantly. "Thank you," she snapped. "But if you'll excuse me, High Lord, unless there's an real emergency, I'd prefer if you would come back another time. I'd like to spend some time with my son while the snow is still here."

Mikal was standing at the base of the stairs, watching them. Giving Saetan a curt nod, she tried to angle around him.

Saetan took a step sideways to neatly block her again. "If you might be willing to postpone your snowball fight for a few minutes, I have something for Mikal. And you," he added as an apparent afterthought.

Even from here she could see those ears had heard the magic words. Probably every child over the age of two can hear the slightest whisper that says _present._ Eyes widening, he took a few hopeful steps closer.

She glared at him, but it was impossible to deny her son a gift. Even if it was from—"Oh, all right," she grumbled. "Mikal, come inside! I suppose this will only take a minute."

They went into the front parlor. She stripped off her cape and vanished it with her gloves, then sat down. It would have looked perilously close to a flounce, if she were silly enough to have on one of those ridiculous old-fashioned long skirts that Sae—that some stuffy traditionalists thought women should still be wearing.

The High Lord called in a long slender box, neatly wrapped and tied. "For you," he said, handing it to her son.

The boy took it, and looked up at him. "Did you really like my present?" he demanded. "Or did you just say that to be nice?"

Saetan sat down so he could be at eye level. "No. I do like it, very much," he replied sincerely. "Nobody ever gave me a toy boat of my own before. And you made a very fine boat, boyo. You have a real talent for working with wood."

He nodded at the box in Mikal's hands. "I hope you like your present as much as I liked yours."

Needing no further encouragement, her son tore into his gift. His face lit up as he found a pair of Eyrien war sticks. "Mama, Mama, look! Look what Uncle Saetan gave me!"

Sylvia shot 'Uncle Saetan' a glance, then said firmly, "Yes, Mikal, they're very nice. Say thank you properly, please."

Mikal bobbed an awkward bow. "Thank you, my lord! They're wonderful! Now I can learn how to use them!"

A smile playing around his mouth, Saetan answered, "Yes, you can. They're sized for you, by the way. Not quite as long as an adult uses."

"Do you think I can learn to be good with them?" Mikal asked hopefully.

"If you're willing to practice steadily. Lucivar said he's willing to add you to his class of youngsters, if you'd like."

The prospect of learning weapons from the greatest Eyrien warrior alive left Mikal speechless. All the boy could do was nod, clutching the sticks to his chest.

With a chuckle, Saetan turned him around and gave him a little push. "I think your mother's Captain of the Guard is outside. Why don't you ask Brand to show you some of the basic moves?"

Her son shot out the door, so excited he forgot to ask for permission. She couldn't blame him. Her little boy was growing up, and she couldn't hold him with her forever. She eyed her unwanted guest with a touch of resentment. _Men!_ They always stuck together. And now _her son_ was starting to join them.

He looked back at her, face calm.

Hell's fire and the Darkness save her, but he was handsome. Prince Sadi was more beautiful, but there was a cold deadliness about the man which she found faintly repellent even as she acknowledged that astounding sexual appeal.

The High Lord was not as tall as the Prince. But he had given his eldest son that same slender build, the same feline grace. The father had the light brown skin of the Hayllian race, midway between Sadi's warm gold and Yaslana's rich brown. The startling white at his temples highlighted those striking eyes, with their thick dark lashes. He sat relaxed, at ease. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, and perhaps that was the true difference between him and the son he called his mirror.

The words were hard to get out, but she managed it. "Thank you for giving him the sticks. I didn't realize...it means a lot to him."

His tone was sympathetic. "Children always grow up too fast. It's hard being a parent."

"Yes, it is, sometimes. He's all—the only one who's still a boy."

He did understand, damn him. She knew he truly understood how she felt. There was no false sympathy in him. Perhaps it was why she'd fallen in love with Saetan Daemon SaDiablo. There was no falseness there, unlike Flynt Darwell.

_What you see is what I am,_ he'd said to her long ago.

_And what do you think I see? _She had retorted, arching a brow.

_What everyone else sees,_ Saetan replied flatly. _Death._

She wondered if he realized how revealing those words were. Almost everyone was terrified of him – well, at first she was frightened too. He was the Prince of the Darkness, so powerful he terrified even the demon-dead. The Sisters of the Hourglass, the Black Widows, feared no one but the man who was their first and only High Priest.

Lesser Jewels like her looked at the Black with awe and fear, never considering how lonely it must be, to be almost without peer and only a few superiors. When she realized that, she stopped being afraid of the titles and power, and was drawn to the man behind them.

He wasn't what people thought...no, that wasn't right, she amended. He was every bit as dangerous as the High Lord of Hell and a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince should be.

But he was so much more. So much that other people never saw. He was funny. He was gentle. He was tender and romantic. Everything a woman could want in a man.

Passionate, protective, clever, wise, strong.

Damn him to Hell, how could she love another man after him? They were like paper cutouts compared to warm flesh. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Thank you for coming," she said with dignity. "This meant a great deal to Mikal. I appreciate your visit today."

His smile was enigmatic. "I believe you're trying to dismiss me. I can't leave yet, sorry."

She stared. "What? You can't? Why not?"

Amusement lit those eyes. A box appeared, and he held it out. Not moving a muscle, she looked at it with suspicion, eyes narrowing.

The amusement deepened, spreading from the eyes to lift the corners of a sensual mouth. "It's not dangerous," he chided gently. "Take it, please."

Reluctantly she took it. It was rectangular, heavier than it looked. Carefully she pulled off the ribbon and wound it into a coil. She meticulously slit the tape holding the wrapping paper closed.

Saetan said nothing, but the smile widened a little as he watched her dawdle over opening her present.

It was a metal box, she discovered after finally unwrapping it. Patterned in an intricate design formed of inlaid wire and painted in brilliant enamels. It was an expensive technique which only a few craftsmen practiced. "How lovely!" she exclaimed, and meant it. She ran her fingers over the curved lid, admiring the fine detailing. "Thank you! This is beautiful."

He cleared his throat. "You're supposed to _open_ it," he muttered.

Startled, she threw him a glance. She released the catch to lift the lid. Her mouth formed a soundless _Oh!_

Of all the things she might expect, this wasn't one of them.

She was a District Queen. Halaway was prosperous, but not unusually so. Her parents were lower-level Blood of modest background and ambitions. She did own jewelry, of course. Some aquamarine and a few nice topazes, in simple classic settings. None of it could compare with _this_.

Glittering green fires twinkled up at her. Gold and peridot flashed in the light.

Her eyes widened at the stamp clipped into the corner of the inside – this had come from Banard! The most expensive, exclusive jeweler in all of Kaeleer.

The necklace was worked in braided antique gold, with an intricate web of smaller gems surrounding a large oval-shaped emerald of amazing clarity. The earrings dangled long enough to be seen, but not so long that they would be awkward to wear.

And the ring!

She had never imagined a ring so lovely. Emeralds were more expensive than any other gemstone, for they were hard to find without flaws. This one was flawless, almost the length of a finger joint. It was wrapped with a few delicate gold wires threaded with tiny yellow diamonds, like a sparkling net of fireflies over a verdant pool.

"I hope it fits," Saetan frowned. His voice sounded odd. "Do you like it?"

"It's—too much, High Lord!" she protested. "This must have cost you a fortune!"

He raised a brow. "I _have_ a fortune," he returned coolly. "My eldest son possesses an astonishing talent for making money. I don't think even my former wife could have spent it faster than he brings it in."

Sylvia swallowed, so hard he could hear it. "I can't," she tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable. "I really have no place to wear something so lavish."

Saetan shook his head. "Try it on," he urged, ignoring her words.

"I—" she tried to get her tongue untangled. "Truly – I can't accept such a present. This is beautiful, but it's far too expensive, High Lord. I've nowhere to wear it."

It was hard to give up, she'd never seen anything more beautiful. She closed the lid and shoved the box at him, expecting him to object, but he took it back.

"But you will. Wear it, I mean. That is, if you'll accept it." He drew in a breath. Darkness be merciful, could he sound any more feeble-brained?

_Stop fumbling around, you fool. You're babbling. _

"You called me Saetan, once. I'd like it if you would call me that again. There's too many people calling me 'High Lord' wherever I go. It's enough to make my teeth ache."

"If...if you wish," she stammered. "But what do you mean, I'll have somewhere to wear it?"

He opened the box and took out the ring. Picking up a nerveless hand, he slid it on her finger. "A perfect fit," he said with satisfaction. "Banard's memory never ceases to amaze me."

Then he raised a hand to cup the side of her face. Those long, elegant fingers gently caressed her cheek, her lips.

She wasn't aware her eyelids had fluttered closed. She would have known his touch in a pitch-black room. It was sensual and kind, passionate and yet gentle. As unique as the man. His lips gently brushed over hers. Even that feather-light contact made her whole body sizzle.

He straightened, and her eyes flew open.

"If you'll accept this present from me, I'd like a gift in return."

Sylvia blinked, then laughed nervously. "I didn't buy you anything for Winsol. I can't even imagine what I _could_ buy you for a present, that you couldn't buy for yourself!"

He drew her close, even as she tried to resist. But he was so strong, and she had missed him so much. Darkness damn him, her body missed _this_. They had always fit so well together, from the very first.

"You underestimate yourself, as always," he murmured. "Like your son, you can give me something no one's ever given me before."

She felt her mouth go dry. "W–What's that?" she stammered.

Just before his mouth crushed down on hers and her mind went completely blank, he growled, _"You."_


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.

**Kaeleer, SaDiablo Hall**

All things being equal, Daemon considered it only fair that this time their roles were reversed. With a grin on his face, he watched the tall man pace back and forth.

"Would you like some brandy?" he asked with exaggerated solicitousness.

His father snarled at him, a growl worthy of Kaelas, the eight-hundred pound Arcerian Warlord Prince that his darling wife insisted upon calling her 'pretty kitty'. "No. I do not want brandy. Nor do I want a sedative, or a whack upside the head," Saetan snapped back.

Leaning against the doorway to the gardens, Daemon laughed, tickled that his father remembered the exact words he'd said to his son at _his _wedding. It was a heartless sound, and the High Lord snarled again.

"I would have thought you're too experienced to be nervous at your own wedding. It's not as though you haven't done this before, after all."

Saetan stopped pacing to throw him a scorching glance. "I haven't," he replied tersely. "I've never married a woman who might love _me_, not because she has a lust for wealth and power."

"Ah, Hell's fire and Mother Night." His son winced. "I'm sorry, Father. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Drawing in a deep breath, Saetan shook his head, forcing himself calm down. "No, you're right. I _have_ done this before. But this time it's going to come out right. I think."

Daemon touched his shoulder. "It will. She's the right woman for you, and you're the right man for her. And for Mikal."

Saetan reached out to draw him into an embrace. "I hope you're right. You'd _better_ be right. I'm going to try, even if we're shattering some of the oldest rules the Blood can remember," he grumbled.

His son hugged him back. "It will be all right," Daemon said softly. "Lorn and Draca have said they approve. Everybody's happy for both of you. Everything will work out, you'll see."

Saetan gave a shaky laugh, then kissed him. "Yes, it will. We'll make it work out, she and I together."

Daemon kissed him back, breathing an invisible sigh of relief. As he followed the High Lord of Hell out into the soft golden twilight, he could see Lucivar flash a grin at him. A large crowd, including a radiant Queen of Halaway wearing a magnificent set of emerald jewelry, were waiting for them.

Jaenelle, as a Priestess of the Hourglass, would perform the ceremony.

Marian and Ruthvian stood beside his brother, smiling. Daemonar was so excited, he kept bouncing up and down into the air. Surreal and Rainier stood next to them, also grinning. Draca and Geoffrey were there to represent the Keep, while every one of Jaenelle's First Circle and Coven had come with their partners. The Dhemlan Queens were all in attendance, as was Cassidy, Queen of Shalador Nehele, and her husband Gray.

These people were the ties that would bind Saetan's heart to the living.

There were others gathered here too, including a number of the wild Kindred – the wolves, tigers, and Arcerian cats. Even the unicorns had come, to the wonderment of almost everyone except Jaenelle.

The High Lord had made his choice. He had chosen life over death, and now his children wouldn't need to fear losing him too soon.

Daemon smothered a smile as Jaenelle began to speak.

His father didn't know yet. They weren't telling anyone until this celebration was done. But Lucivar and Marian weren't the only ones who were giving Saetan a new generation of crew for the ships that sailed on the Phantom Sea.

In a few more months, Daemonar and Ruthvian were going to have a new cousin.

_-Finis-_


End file.
